Chapter 2

My name is Chloe. Before I got married, I was an Italian translator.

The year Fisher first started his company, he couldn’t even write a proper business email.

The first time we met an Italian client, everything from how to greet them, how to quote prices, to how to write the after-sales terms – I guided him through every single step.

That night, the client changed their requirements at the last minute, and Fisher paced anxiously in the living room.

I sat at the computer, revising the proposal from scratch, then translating it sentence by sentence into Italian.

At two in the morning, he was asleep on the sofa. I was still replying to emails for him.

Later, when the deal was signed, he got drunk at dinner and slapped his chest, saying, “Good thing I kept my cool.”

I just smiled back then.

Now that I think about it, he didn’t forget my contribution.

He just never planned to credit me for it.

Later, the company grew bigger and bigger.

Fisher bought a new car, moved into a mansion, and everyone around him called him Mr. Fisher.

After I got pregnant with Orwell, Eleanor, my mother-in-law, advised me to quit my job.

“The first three years of a child's life are crucial. Can you really trust strangers to raise them?”

Fisher also said, “You just stay home and rest for a few years. I’ll make the money.”

I believed him. And that ‘rest’ lasted for six years.

In those six years, I raised Orwell from a crying infant into a bright, accomplished child.

He played piano, played chess, and spoke foreign languages.

His kindergarten teachers praised his intelligence, and relatives praised Fisher for his parenting.

Eleanor always grinned from ear to ear, “Our family’s kids are just different.”

No one ever mentioned me.

Occasionally someone would ask, “Wasn’t Chloe a translator before?”

Eleanor would cut in, “She’s got it good now, staying home with the kids. How hard can that be?”

I used to smile, thinking there was no need to be petty with family.

Until today, when Orwell used the Italian I taught him to insult me.

He reached out again, “Mom, I want ice cream.”

Before, when he reached out, I would immediately take his backpack, water bottle, and jacket, then ask him if he’d been good at school today.

Today, I didn’t move. “No ice cream today.”

He looked up at me. “Why?”

“Because you just humiliated me.”

He looked surprised, as if he hadn't expected me to say that.

“But I didn’t say it in English.”

I looked at him. “Using a different language doesn’t make it less hurtful.”

His face flushed. “You’re mean. Eleanor says you’re always complaining since you got pregnant with my sister.”

I opened the car door. “Get in.”

He stood still.

Before, when he did this, I would crouch down and coax him.

Today, I just put his backpack in the car.

“If you don’t get in, you can walk home.”

Orwell froze. He looked at me as if it was the first time he’d ever heard me say something like that.

Three seconds later, he cried. Loudly. Many parents at the school gate looked our way.

I didn’t comfort him; I waited for him to cry.

Eventually, he got tired of crying and climbed into the backseat.

Halfway home, he deliberately unscrewed his water bottle cap, spilling water all over.

I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “You clean it up when we get home.”

He said, “This is Dad’s car.”

I said, “You’re the one who dirtied it.”

He widened his eyes. “You never used to be like this.”

The traffic light ahead turned red, and I hit the brakes. “I never knew you all would be like this, either.”